


It's a Wonderful Life

by ghostyouknow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-13 03:02:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/819212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostyouknow/pseuds/ghostyouknow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A viral pandemic has turned humans into alphas, omegas, and betas (who do not transform but carry the virus) ... whenever it doesn't turn them into zombies. Castiel is patient zero. Meg used to be his nurse. Now, she's something else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's a Wonderful Life

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to snickfic for all the encouragement!

“I don't have much longer,” Castiel said, as if Meg couldn't figure that one out on her own.

“Hold your horses.” Meg locked the tack room door behind them, using a slim chain and hook that wouldn't hold up against much. They needed to keep moving. They needed to stake out a room with more than one fucking exit. Zombies didn't back off when they saw a woman balls-deep in a man.

But that scent. Castiel's scent. _Ripe_ would be a word, and Meg knew she wasn't much better, judging from the sharp, interested flare of Castiel's nostrils or the way her stub of a dick wouldn't quit twitching.

“You wet?” she asked.

Castiel's lip twitched. “What do you think?”

Meg could smell it. His slick. Sweet and stinging, like lemon curd. She'd tasted him before, let him sink into her skin. Now, she couldn't get rid of him. They'd been bound up, somehow, thanks to the urgings of their altered bodies.

He dropped his pack and undid his belt, eyes searching the room. “The hay pile?”

It was straw, actually, and moldy. Meg shrugged. They needed to fuck long enough to cool down and get the hell out of dodge, dodge being a tack room in some abandoned barn in the middle of Virginia. She and Cas should check for horses in the fields before they left; see if there were any animals they could slaughter. If they had time. If Cas' heat didn't get them both killed.

Castiel pushed his jeans down, past his ass. He didn't remove anything. He knew they might have to run.

He got down on his hands and knees, nose wrinkling when he touched straw gone black and slimy. “One of these days, I'm going to demand that you romance me.”

“Can't you tell when we've got ourselves a honeymoon suite?” Meg kicked off her panties and took her place behind him, hands skimming down those strong thighs, then spreading his cheeks to get a good look at his pussy. It was downright scarlet. He'd gone as long as he could. She couldn't help but take pride in him. His restraint.

“Fuck me,” Castiel said. “Now. Before I attract every zombie in the area.”

“I'm surprised at you, Clarence. I thought you'd appreciate a little effort to set the mood.”

“Excuse me for wanting to survive this fuck.”

Meg breathed him in, tasting his pheromones on the air. She felt her upper lip curl, even as her dick increased its swell. Heat-sex always took on these strange dimensions. This wasn't her body. She hadn't been born with this dick or its drives. Yet, it felt right to sweep aside her skirt and expose herself to the stale air, to move over Castiel and press and slide until she found the wet slit of his cunt.

Castiel widened his stance. Meg sank into him. She slipped her hand onto to his belly as her hips began their instinctive pump, then moved it down to take a hold of his cock. It was even smaller than hers, though she knew it hadn't started out that way. She'd given him his sponge baths, back when he was just another nutcase and not the wonder who'd cut the world off at its knees.

Castiel hissed and drove back, squeezing tight. It was practical—the quicker they tied, the sooner they separated—but the hitching sighs on his breath said that he was enjoying himself, whether he wanted to or not. Meg didn't know if that made it better or worse for either of them.

She jacked him quick, sucked down his scent. Less than a year ago, she'd found it disgusting. She and the orderlies. Like a cat had pissed on the couch every day for a month, then puked on top. They'd tried to figure out what was wrong with their John Doe. What organ system was failing, to produce B.O. that bad.

Now, it was everything good in this world. It made Meg's mind settle. Made her knot grow.

Speaking of—she ground her hips, trying to encourage her dick to finish this thing. It usually complied. Whatever they were now, their bodies weren't wired for delay. Not when it came to this part.

Castiel hissed. He was wetter now. Stinkier, too. Meg draped herself over her back and wished they were naked, that they could bite and scratch without destroying their clothes. That first time—after her fever had broke—their bodies hadn't even changed yet, not like they were gonna, and it had been a _rush_. Animal and hungry. They'd fucked like she were still the girl, Cas looking down at her with wide, startled eyes.

It had been a hell of a way to welcome a patient out of a coma.

It had been the beginning of the end. Whatever was inside Clarence—whatever pathogen—it had infected the staff and the other patients, spread rapidly from there. Some changed. Most died, only to rise again. Other kept their bodies but carried the infection.

Cas slammed back against Meg's thighs. “I'm close.”

Meg sometimes liked to tease him with dirty talk, get him flushed and irritated because she wouldn't quit stating the obvious. Yes, he was wet. Yes, he needed it. Yes, he wanted to come around her knot. She sensed, though, that Cas wasn't in the mood to hear it this time, so she just pulled faster on his wet, stubby prick.

He seized and cried out—softly—and his contractions clenched around the base of her. Meg felt herself swell up and plug him. She collapsed over his back, knowing he could more than support her weight, as she felt the first spurt of her orgasm.

Castiel reached back, searching for her hip or butt or something. Meg caught his hand in hers. Together, they squeezed.

#

Meg poked Cas. He grumbled, but let her shift them onto their sides. Spoons. Knots. Meg's body kept pumping . Castiel's clenched and fluttered, demanding more. They could be stuck for ten minutes or forty-five.

She nuzzled whatever skin she could reach, feeling her chest balloon with warm goopy feelings she mostly blamed on endorphins. Castiel pushed back against her. Shuddered. Made Meg shudder right with him. They were still holding hands. Meg couldn't bring herself to care. She didn't know how long they stayed there, before the orgasms started coming with less frequency and Cas was back to speaking:

“We'll have to find more medical supplies soon. Before my next heat.”

“Not gonna let me put a baby in you, Clarence?” The idea appealed to Meg, because hormones and fucked-up new biology. Some part of her wanted to build them a den.

Castiel turned his head to glare at her.

Meg bloomed with dumb affection. She pursed her mouth and blew, ruffling the wet hair at his nape. “We don't even know if it works like that. We haven't seen a guy get pregnant yet.”

Castiel went still, wherever he wasn't milking her cock. “We haven't seen anyone but the dead. Not for months.”

“Aren't you just a bundle of sunshine?” Meg tested the knot. It had gone down some, but not enough for them to separate. She hoped they found a stream sooner rather than later, considering the amount of sweat and sebum—the secretion creating that _gorgeous_ stink–coating their bodies and clothes. The sensation wasn't pleasant. It also wasn't safe; the smell acted like a zombie beacon, calling every Deadhead for miles.

“I'm realistic,” Castiel said. “It's been months since we saw anyone … sentient. Those people tried to kill us.”

Well, yeah. They'd recognized Castiel.

Meg had taken as many medications as they could carry, when they'd first set off. Painkillers. Antibiotics. Birth control, except she didn't need it anymore, and it sure as hell didn't stop Castiel's heats. They'd been using spermicide, and it seemed to help. Castiel hadn't gotten pregnant yet, anyway, and they were fairly sure he could. Meg didn't want to count on their new bodies being sterile.

“I deserve it,” Castiel continued. “I've killed many.”

“The plague—”

“I'm talking about before.”

Castiel didn't remember much of his before, and he didn't like what he remembered. He'd mentioned nightmares.

Meg rubbed his belly. Probably not the best move.

A low groan. Castiel tensed.

“You okay?” Meg asked, before she could stop herself.

Castiel shook his head. His gaze fixed on the door. Something sharp rose from his skin to cut through the sweet _oh yeah_ of his heat scent. It clashed with another odor, one Meg wished she didn't recognize. Rot slicked her throat like oil, thick enough to taste: the zombie was in its bloat. Maggots were still hatching, creating gas and peeling skin from muscle from bone. In a humid place like this, it could still new-dead.

So much for the afterglow.

Meg tried to pull out of Cas, only to feel one of his hands clamp against her ass. He shook his head again. Great. They were too stuck to separate, and she couldn't just yank herself out, since then they'd be rolling around on the floor howling instead of kicking zombie ass.

Somewhere outside, a floorboard creaked.

Meg searched the room, trying to ignore the happy-happy-joy-joy things still going on with her dick. They'd dropped their bags by the door, just out of reach, and that had been _dumb_. Shit. Had she even locked the door? She had, hadn't she? 

Castiel looked at her, his mouth a thin line. Meg didn't think they'd gone psychic, but she couldn't deny that unspoken communication was easier for them than it should be. It was smell and taste and intuition. It was knowing Cas too well.

Together, they squirmed upright, getting back onto their hands and knees with minimal yanking, which—shit, _shit_ —was more than bad enough. Meg braced herself on Castiel's back, panting and hating everything that had led him them here. That probably included Cas. It didn't help when he dipped his spine and pressed back, a sigh on his lips, like his body cared more about making a baby than imminent death.

Something pounded at the door. A slow, thumping rhythm. _Slap. Slap_. The living would have knocked, talked, whistled, anything to distinguish themselves from the dead.

The chain rattled on its hook. Meg noticed things she hadn't before—rotten places in the wood, the frailty of that chain—and had to bite her lip to keep from screaming her aggravation. They'd survived this long. They were too good to die like this. They were _tied_ , for fuck's sake.

Meg wanted to tear out the zombie's throat with her teeth, like it would make a difference. Like it wouldn't turn her. It was an animal instinct. Castiel was hers. She was spurting a baby into him, straight from her cock to his oven. He wasn't anyone's to kill.

Castiel's thighs trembled, but Meg knew him, and she knew he didn't shake in fear. She clenched her fists until her nails hurt her palms, grounding herself in the strength and focus beneath her. Clarence really was something else, even when he was taking it so nicely.

He shifted his weight, freeing one hand, and pointed to a corner of the tack room. A pitchfork leaned against the warped wall—one of the good ones, too, meant for hay and not just scooping shit. Metal. Three-pronged. They might be able to do some damage. More than the knife Meg had in her pocket, anyway.

The door slammed on its hinges, making Meg jump, which also made her pull, which _fuck_. They both winced and stilled.

Meg leaned forward. Whispered. “We've got better stuff in our bags.”

“You want to get them?”

They were right next to the door, so, no, Meg couldn't say she was all that keen; they'd be in an awful vulnerable position if the wood gave way. The pitchfork was closer, too.

She patted his side like he were a horse, a non-verbal acknowledgment. She felt his muscles in his back and thigh bunch, announcing his intentions, allowing her to move with him. She kept her lower arms on his back, balancing as she moved her knee in the same path as his. Left knee. Right knee. It was almost hilarious, Castiel leading her by her dick.

_Thump._

Wood splintered, revealing a glimpse of puffed-out, blackened skin. The chain strained but held. Saddles were valuable. You would have thought their owner would've pulled out a padlock, instead of a dainty, delicate chain.

Meg wanted to tense, but Castiel kept moving, and the slight pull was uncomfortable enough to make her match him. Damn him. _Bless_ him.

 _Thump_.

An arm clamored through the wood. Meg caught a glance of wristwatch half-buried in bubbled skin, and suddenly she was coming. Hard. She arched her back and moaned. Castiel's pussy twitched in its usual, encouraging way, wanting everything she could give it,

The door broke. The zombie lurched to the side. Meg heard a crunch, a crackle. So much for their last tube of Ritz—

Castiel's upper body shot up. He reached back, fishing into his jeans, scrambling for the knife in his belt. Meg clawed at his shoulders and fought the urge to bite at his back, because he wasn't trying to get away and she knew that, even if her body didn't.

She felt him twist, saw the knife fly from his hand—

A dull thunk.

Meg turned and saw the zombie—tall, broad, in stained plaid and ripped jeans. Maggots and juice spilled around its right eye socket, now complete with knife handle.

It kept coming. A slow lurch on a broken leg, the bone splintered through a dark well of insects, meat, and denim.

That happened sometimes; brain injuries weren't always enough, and even when they were, that didn't mean an immediate cessation of all zombie function. Twice-dead zombies could still kill, so long as they were moving.

It could still kill _Cas_.

Meg bared her teeth, growling, and pulled back. One last attempt—

A sharp pain. Her knot popped free.

Meg screamed. Rage and hurt. Pure adrenaline. She reached over Castiel and grabbed the pitchfork. Drove it forward. Pinned the zombie's head to the goddamn wall. 

She bowled over, her hands on her thighs. Her heartbeat thumped in her head and ears and toes and chest as she clawed at her skirt. Meg had preferred jeans, back before she'd been infected, but women's inseams were unkind to dangling nethers. Pissing later was going to be a fiery, burning bitch.

Slowly, Meg straightened. Turned to Castiel.

He was staring at the zombie with a strange, almost constipated look on his face. That could've been his sore pussy, but Meg doubted it. She swallowed. Her mouth felt dry. “Someone you knew?”

Castiel hesitated. “I don't remember anyone before the hospital.”

Meg knew that. “But?”

Castiel met her eyes. Then his gaze flicked away. “For a moment, he seemed familiar. I think he reminded me of someone, but I lost it. I've lost a lot of things.”

Right.

Meg gingerly moved toward Castiel's pack. The zombie had gotten goo on it. Not a good sign. She picked it up and gave it a good shake, dispelling larvae. The plastic bottles should be okay, and they triple Ziploc-ed pills and ointments. Most of their shit would survive. _They'd_ survived.

“I want offspring.” Castiel was still studying that goddamn zombie. “Or my body does. It's hard to tell, now, when I'm in heat, but I do … feel a drive. Sex seems like a means to an end.”

It had almost ended them.

“We've all got drives, Clarence.”

“ _Clarence_. As if I could be so benign an angel.” His hand dropped to his stomach. His voice went low and fierce. “I'll kill myself before I bring anything else into this world.”

Meg slung his pack over her shoulder. She planted herself between Cas and the zombie she'd killed, and snapped her fingers. “Hey.”

Castiel's nostrils flared, and Meg knew he was breathing in her, them, sex, death.

She grabbed his face, leaned up, and kissed him. It was a hard kiss, full of teeth, but it gentled as they went, like the ferocious animal things inside them had decided to let old-fashioned human connection take the wheel. Meg didn't focus on Castiel's scent. She lost herself in his taste and warmth and the way he held her like he cared. 

They pulled apart. Held on. Castiel's expression had gone soft and adoring, never mind that they were making out in front of a corpse.

“Clarence,” Meg said, “gave George Bailey a reason to keep going. He said, 'no man's a failure who has friends.'”

“Do I?” Castiel tilted his head, all glowing.

Meg rolled her eyes, trying to hide the fluttering in her chest. She knew Cas saw her anyway. “Yeah, yeah, we're best buds. It's a wonderful life. How about we get a move on before something else tries to eat us mid-fuck?”

He straightened, the soft parts of him disappearing into cold, hard angles. He was all-business, Meg's angel. “We should find a stream and follow it. It should disguise our scents, and it might help—” he raised an eyebrow in the general direction of Meg's crotch “—cool our ardor.”

Meg shoved his shoulder, since her _ardor_ wasn't the problem. “Asshole.”

Castiel walked around Meg, to the zombie. He pulled his knife from its socket and wiped the mess on the straw before returning the weapon to his belt. She could still smell the heat on his skin, but he was strong, and they'd cover good ground before he needed another stop.

“What are you waiting for?” he asked. “Let's go.”

They moved on and out. 

_Fin._

 


End file.
